the forgotten room
southwest is the scullery, where you belong
amidst the pots and pans and unwashed underthings
and moutains of fluffy white bubbles
and clean tile,
and hunger for fame.
next door is the kitchen,
you hear shouting and smell
cinnamon, roast pork, apple sauce
but when something's burnt, the smoke carries twice as far
fills the room and clings to the draperies
and all the nice things suddenly vanish beneath the
the rain is the worst!
whenever it's washing day, you know the routine
the sky will get dark
and seasonal depression sets in, your scullery
your pots and pans and unwashed underthings,
your sink full of flat brown water,
your next fifty years scrubbing tiles,
where you belong.
it all gets soaking wet
(and you hate it).